


Spare Parts

by vladazhael



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: But That's Not the Point, Death, F/M, Gen, Mild Language, Technobabble, a bit of grown-up angst, maybe romantic if you squint, sketchy coping skills, some sort of relationship, your ship can still sail on these seas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 18:52:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5596954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vladazhael/pseuds/vladazhael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Starkiller makes itself known, a mechanic struggles to put the pieces together.</p><p>Updated 3/15/16 to fix things that were bugging me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spare Parts

Vida hears him the second he enters the otherwise deserted hangar. Even if she didn't know Poe's footsteps by now, the sound of his droid's metal body rolling across the floor is unmistakable, and there's really not anyone else with both the command access and the sheer audacity to come looking for her here so late. She doesn't do anything to give away her exact location, but by his approach she knows he's found her anyway. He stops close enough for her to feel his presence warping her solitude.

His voice is the first she's heard in a while. “What are you doing?” he asks, and it's more a greeting than a question of specifics. She can tell it's not prompted by surprise at encountering her here.

“Taking inventory,” she replies, though it isn't strictly true. An hour ago, she was taking inventory, preparing for the inevitable parts crisis to come from the destruction of the Republic shipyards along with the rest of the Hosnian system. Now she's just hovering on a retired med gurney halfway under the fleet's signature black X-wing, staring up into an open engine access panel and listening to the ship's familiar hums and ticks above her.

“Can't the droids take care of that for you?”

BB-8 chirps in agreement.

They could, of course, and more efficiently. But this isn't just about quantities. This is a task she embarked on not because it needs to be done, but because _she_ needs to do it. “It's different, seeing what I have to work with,” she replies. She doesn't come out from under the engine to explain, and hopes it serves as a signal that she doesn't wish to be disturbed.

BB-8 rolls closer and trills again, gently – _Let me help_.

Vida sighs. She can resist human interference for a while, but droids always manage to charm their way through. Especially this one. She extracts the partially completed count chip from her datapad and holds it out. To her surprise, it's not BB-8's skinny retractable arm she feels grabbing the chip from her hand, but Poe's fingers, lingering a fraction of a second too long.

The touch compromises her shields, like it's obviously supposed to, but she gets them back up in time for BB-8 to roll off with the chip and leave them alone. She hears the droid tap into a control panel across the room. Poe is still lurking nearby, she knows, though she hasn't looked away from the comforting mechanical tangle above her for a second.

“What are you doing here?” she demands. It's not unkind, but far from inviting. This section of the base is more her turf than his, and she's feeling a particular need to defend it at the moment.

He's unfazed, though – she can hear that he's smiling. “I thought I might find you meditating under my ship again.”

“Under _my_ engines,” she scoffs.

She can picture the good-natured shake of his head. “Never going to let me forget who built them, are you?”

“Not when nobody else will let me forget who flies them.” It's an old point of contention, softened somewhat with time and mutual respect. Fondness, even.

“Of course,” he concedes. He tries to touch her hand again, but she draws it back and reaches up to adjust a thermocouple she knows doesn't need tightening. 

“You found me. What do you want?”

“To see how you're holding up.” He gives up on touch and leans against the hull, his swagger undimmed. He's not going away.

She sighs again. “Fantastic. I'm really looking forward to overseeing repairs on what's left of the fleet now that the shipyards that smuggle us most of our supplies have been vaporized.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“Then what _did_ you mean?” she snaps. “Because that's the biggest shitstorm on my scanners right now.” She feels some measure of guilt at her outburst. He's been dealing with plenty, too. Capture, interrogation, a crash landing, not to mention the loss of several comrades – just standard Resistance life, sure, but that doesn't make it easy. He's probably barely holding together himself, and here she is giving him hell.

To his credit, he's well past being scared off by her bad attitude. “What about your family?”

“What about them?” As if she doesn't know; as if she's not expecting him to cut right to the core of the issue.

“Did any of them make it out?” He asks it carefully, his voice full of genuine compassion, but it still hits her like a shock, because the answer is the same no matter how tactful he is.

“Not a one,” she growls. Her hand squeezes white-knuckle tight around the wrench she's holding. She traces the conduits and wires above her with her eyes, summoning calm. “Not a single molecule.”

He utters a quiet curse. “I'm so sorry, Vida. If there's-”

“ _Don't_!” she cuts him off, her voice cracking under the emotional strain. She's here specifically trying not to break down, damn him. “Just go. Please.”

He's relentless, though. Always has been. “You shouldn't be alone.”

“I _am_ alone!” she almost screams. She drops her hands down and clutches the wrench against her chest. Tears, not the first of the day, are creeping past the edges of her goggles and carving tracks through the grime on her face. It'll be obvious she's been crying, she knows, but if she tries to fix it, she'll only push grit into her eyes. She tries to think of something that will make the tears stop, but there isn't much.

A tense silence descends while he grapples with her statement, and then he says, “Move over.”

She pauses, not eager to show off any more of her pathetic state than she already has. But she knows she's running out of reasons to shoo him away, and she doesn't have the energy to invent more. She moves aside precisely as he climbs up next to her, doing her part in a cooperative balancing act that has taken some practice to perfect. Happier times have taught them that the gurney will hold them both, though, assuming a certain level of closeness.

She can't make herself look at him just yet, but she feels him clearly enough. The maintenance hangar gets chilly at night, especially with most of the lights off, and she's been in here a long time – long enough that being next to him now feels like lying in a sunbeam. For a second, she closes her eyes. When she opens them again, the lower port engine's complex internal structure is still there to greet her. She knew it would be, but it's a relief to see it anyway.

In the distance, she can hear BB-8 chattering away with the maintenance database. The droid is in no rush, giving them space. It's a meddlesome trick she can't quite manage to resent. “Was it your idea to come here, or BB-8's?” she says softly, testing the steadiness of her voice. It holds.

“A little of both,” Poe answers. She can hear his concern, though he sweetens it with levity to make sure she won't reject it outright. “We didn't see you at the memorial.”

“I didn't go.”

“I noticed. So did General Organa.”

 _Shit_. Vida's head snaps over to look at him and she fumbles her goggles up onto her forehead. “Did she say anything to you?” The General has a rare gift for making her nervous.

“Just a vague remark about crew chiefs not showing up for official ceremonies. I think she's saving the rest for you.”

“Shit.” Now she has fear to add to her list of maladies.

“You can't be surprised.” He's sympathetic, but his tone betrays a hint of frustration. This isn't the first time Vida's lack of military discipline has gotten her in trouble, nor the first time Poe has been tangled up in it.

She stares back up at the engine, still unable to meet his eyes for long. They see into her too deep, and she can't withstand it right now. “I tried,” she admits. “I really did.” And she means it. She'd been halfway into her dress uniform before her resolve had failed and she'd crawled back into her battered coveralls like a protective shell. By the time she reached the hangar, she'd come up with enough excuses to make her retreat there seem like necessity rather than cowardice.

“It might have done you some good,” he insists as he reaches over to pick a bit of debris out of her hair. “There was plenty of talk about the Republic fleet, and they mentioned the shipyards...”

She grimaces and shakes her head, because she knows he thinks he's helping, when really he's just restating the problem. “ _Mentioned_.” 

“You said you grew up there.” He's trying to coax more out of her. Trying to get her to open up.

“Yeah, I grew up _in_ the shipyards, literally. Hangars and bunkers and orbital platforms.” It comes out harsh. She doesn't mean to chastise him, not really, but stress is getting the best of her. She tries to push it back and regain control. “Did you know I could identify a fluid leak by smell before I ever saw a plant growing up out of the ground?”

“I didn't.” He's patient still, and maybe even impressed. Her prickliness is no new thing, and he navigates it well.

“It's true. The yards were my whole world before I came here. My family's whole word, for generations. Everyone I know-” She stops short and gulps in a steadying breath. “Everyone I _knew_ worked on these things, one way or another. Every last piece connects back to someone.” She reaches up and grips the edge of the access panel, running her thumb along the hinge. She almost smiles as a thought occurs to her. “Other people have family trees. I have a wiring diagram.”

“Then this is sort of...” He's encouraging her now, but not pushing. It's endearingly transparent.

“Where I come from,” she finishes, the idea clarifying in her mind even as she says it. “This is my memorial.”

She knew that on some level already, but it eases something to have it out in the open. Enough so that she can look at Poe straight on, finally. Only then does she take in the scratches near his eye, the insistent bruises still making themselves known, his look of complete exhaustion. They're kinder souvenirs than one can generally expect from the First Order, and she knows there has to be more under the surface – things that will take more care to patch up and more time to fade. And she wants to be there to help the healing along, but damned if she knows where the strength to do that will come from now. She's depleted beyond her usual limited reserves, raw and running on adrenaline. There's a brittle shell built up around all the pain and loss she doesn't know how to process, and she can hear it starting to splinter.

Seeing him all beaten up doesn't help. Truth be told, it's worse, knowing he's been hurt and being powerless to undo it.

He doesn't flinch when she runs her finger across the cut on his lip. Trust keeps him still – he's always been steadier under her hands than she's been under his. Life's precariousness reminds her of that imbalance in sharp detail right now. “What are you doing here?” she says again. And this time, with her guard down, it sounds a whole lot more like “I'm sorry” – or at least as near as she can manage without opening the floodgates on all there is to be sorry for.

He doesn't answer at first – not with words, anyway. He just shuts his tired eyes, leans in so his forehead touches hers, and breathes out, slow and just a little shaky, holding onto her like it's keeping him whole.

She doesn't know what to to. This can't _be_ – she's not whole herself; she can't be any good to him. No matter how much she wants to be. No matter how much he deserves it. But she doesn't dare draw back and cast him adrift. And he feels so good – so warm and alive and there – in that moment, she's not alone, or at least not so much. There's nobody left in the galaxy who knows her better, at least not anymore, and she can't help but cling to that. To him. And to how he refuses to let her burrow down into loneliness.

Eventually he collects himself and pulls away. Only “away” isn't far at all in the space at hand, so when he says, “Tell me more,” all he has to do is whisper it.

She's not immediately sure what he means. He's got her a little muddled. “About what?”

“About where you come from.” He nods up toward the engine, adopting her metaphor. “Tell me what you see when you look in there.”

She knows he doesn't need a rundown of the internals of his own ship. He's not the kind of pilot who assumes it all works by magic. He's asking for something else, and she's cautious. “You know what's in there.”

“I do, but you know it better.” He shakes off a bit of the melancholy and gives her one of those grins they keep threatening to put on recruitment posters.

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, _now_ you admit that.”

“If it gets you talking.”

“You're so sure I need to talk?”

“Yeah, I am,” he insists, and she can't even work up an indignant huff before he follows with, “And maybe I could use it, too.” The smile falls back from his eyes, replaced by a plea.

That's when it hits her hard that while she's been here trying to figure out how to even begin coping with the destruction of her entire home planet, he's been out there losing half his fleet to make sure it doesn't happen to anyone else. She hasn't thought to insinuate herself into his grief, with the way pilots mourn as their own clan, but now that he's here, away from all that, she can't deny a sense of responsibility for helping him, not to mention a sense of gratitude that defies words.

He saves her the trouble of coming up with anything witty. “Tell me what it all means to you,” he says. “I want to know what I'm taking with me the next time I fly out.”

She's helpless against what he's asking. The way to her heart is through this access panel, and he knows it. “Where do I start?” she wonders ruefully, letting the matter serve as an excuse to look back up into the engine. Everything behaves more predictably there.

“Where were you when I interrupted?”

She thinks back, then reaches up. “Thermal converter.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him looking up, too, following the line of her arm. “Tell me a story about a thermal converter, then,” he says, shifting a bit so that they're no longer lying face to face, but still plenty close. Intentionally close. It's nice.

“There are a few,” she muses. She sorts through options silently, then settles on one too good not to share. “Do you know what happens when you reroute one of these into a fuse port?”

Poe cringes. “Nothing good.”

A flare of memory coaxes out the closest thing to a chuckle Vida can produce under the circumstances. “Well, the light show is pretty great, as long as you don't mind singing your eyebrows off.”

“You didn't...” His eyes are wide.

She snorts. “No, not _me_. My cousin Jael, however, when he was a teenager and thought he was hot shit...”

“And might be able to get a little extra acceleration coming out of a turn?” Poe guesses. Such a gaffe is unthinkable now, but everyone with starfighters in their blood goes through a predictable period of youthful bravado unfettered by the weight of experience. If he didn't make the same specific mistake himself, it won't have been for lack of similar impulses.

“Oh, he _claimed_ it was just a mix-up with the ports,” Vida clarifies, caught up for the moment in the soothing routine of technobabble. “But where I'm from, that's even less excusable than trying to violate the laws of thermodynamics for the extra throttle burst, so his mom sentenced him to reset the entire timing matrix on an ancient and notoriously temperamental B-wing to teach him a lesson.”

“Harsh.”

“Aunt Juno didn't mess around.”

“I guess not.” Poe reaches up and tugs at the converter connection. It holds fast, of course, and Vida pays the unnecessary recheck no mind. She's been in this too long to be offended by any pilot's superstitious tinkering, least of all his. “How long did it take?” he wonders.

“Not as long as we all thought it would. Turned out to work in his favor, too.” Vida gestures over toward another component, drawing Poe's attention away from the perfectly secure port connections. “You see that flow regulator?”

“The Zerril-3C? Yeah.”

She smirks. He's only giving the manufacturer name to show off, but it serves her purposes. “Allow me to introduce my cousin, Jael _Zerril_.”

That catches the rest of his interest. “Really?”

She nods, not unduly proud. “After he got the B-wing back in order, he started tinkering with the old forced backflow regs and figured out how to overcome the sublight throttle shake without losing pressure. Incom brought him under contract for the last phase of T-85 development before he was even out of school, and then he started his own company with the profits.”

If Poe was impressed before, he's nearer to awe now. “I was wondering how you got your hands on enough of those to refit the whole squad.”

“Connections. Which...” Vida pauses, putting together the implication and feeling her throat tighten a little. Distraction seems to have turned on her. “Guess I better pull the stock models out of storage. Might have to downgrade once these start burning out.” The last couple words come out with a quiver she hopes Poe doesn't notice.

He does, judging by the way he intertwines his fingers with hers, but beyond that he doesn't dwell on it. “You saved them?”

“I save everything I can. You never know.”

“True,” he says, then clears his throat, like it's really just dust making his voice a little raspy. “I'll give orders for everyone to back off on atmospheric tricks for a while. Might help them last a little longer.”

She squeezes his hand, hoping it says what her own voice suddenly can't quite manage. Losing her whole family in one fell swoop is bad enough; losing them again piece by piece as the fruits of their labors dwindle and the supply of ships and parts from the Hosnian yards dries up will be another thing entirely. It'll be a fresh hell with each new downward tick in the inventory numbers. And sure, she can steel herself against that, as least as well as anyone possibly could. But now, without her even asking, he's going out of his way to help, willing to negotiate the sanctity of flying itself just to save her some hassle and heartache. It's more than she knows how to handle. 

“Does it ever hurt less?” she asks, her voice hoarse and none too strong. 

She's desperate for him to say yes, for some future escape from the emptiness and loss. But he's too kind to lie to her. “No,” he says. “But it gets easier to live with.”

She lets out a breath that feels heavier than air has any right to be. That'll have to do. 

“I'll try to keep this safe for you, too,” he adds, running his hand along the X-wing's black exterior. There's always been a pilot's reverence in his eyes when he looks at it, but now it seems there's something more. Maybe she flatters herself to think that knowing how she's all bound up in it changes anything for him. Maybe it's just grief, or exhaustion setting in, making her see what she wants to. Whatever it is, it reminds her not to take him for granted. She does that too often.

“Keep yourself safe, too,” she replies quietly. “I'm running low on flesh and blood loved ones.” It's ludicrous to even say it – his whole existence defies safety, and that's what the Resistance needs him for. She doesn't want to be selfish, or damage the daredevil spirit that keeps him aloft. But she's suddenly too keenly aware of how fast a single mishap or well-placed shot could put an end to the series of stolen moments that comprise their history together. So it's important to say, now of all times, that it matters to her whether he comes back from a mission or not. With everything else she's lost, it might matter more than anything.

He just smiles, and it's no less captivating for being a diversionary tactic against making any promises they both know he might not be able to keep.

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the city of Detroit and anyone who's ever looked into the guts of an old car and seen home.
> 
> I dreamed this up on Christmas Eve from underneath a Chevy small block recently borne across the miles far, far from home like the world's least fuel efficient souvenir, so... I may have been working out some shit. 
> 
> Why Poe? Obviously everyone is at least a little bit in love with him at the moment, and rightly so. I mean... damn. He's awesome. And sure, there's an argument to be made that this whole exercise in examining home and homesickness and family and memory could have been accomplished quite respectably without a maybe-kinda-possibly-implied romantic something-or-other, or without involving any canon characters at all, and ultimately I could be accused of shameless self-indulgence/self-insertion here without too much of a logical stretch. But I maintain that the best character moments take place through interaction, and canon characters can be a fantastic means of connection to the universe of the story, and sometimes a canon character is just exactly what you need to help you express something that doesn't have any other path out of you. I stand by my choice, and I'm not sorry.


End file.
